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all the objects in the house. More and more she also learned other kinds of words, which could be combined into simple sentences.
    It was more difficult with the writing. When Arvid had nothing else to do, she took one of the books from a small shelf, but the letters did not seem to have the slightest resemblance to the letters Arvid knew. They looked like runes that she probably had seen at some point, but Arvid knew too little about them, as if this fact would have helped her. Several times Falla read some of the words aloud for her, but Arvid’s understanding of the language was not good enough to understand its structure.
    More than a week had passed when Arvid remained alone in the house. Thoke had lessons to attend and Falla had gone to town to shop and deliver various sewings. Although Arvid had felt more or less composed the last two days, the sudden silence in the house was like poison to her mind.
    She began to wander through the house restlessly, but there didn’t seem to be anything to do. She tidied up a little, cleaned a pot, which Falla had left in the kitchen, then she sat down and began to scroll through books, though with little motivation. With each side full of incomprehensible signs, her mood sank further. After a while she felt frustration and anger beginning to rise in her.
    Arvid threw the book back on the shelf abruptly. She knew herself well enough to know that her mood drop could easily end in a small disaster. The aggression inside her was only a defense mechanism, with which she tried to protect herself from grief and pain. Nevertheless, this mechanism was extremely strong. She had to do something, so she no longer felt so helpless and trapped. But how, caught in a small house in the middle of a foreign city, in an unknown realm, whose language she hardly knew? Should she just go outside? One day she would have to, but the thought of this dark, strange world scared her.
    With every hour Arvid restlessly wandered through the rooms, she felt more troubled and torn, until she finally huddled up in a corner of her sleeping place and buried her face in her hands, feeling nothing but despair.
    Everything was dark and quiet.
    Only the blood was rushing in her ears.
    Arvid suddenly felt something strange deep inside her. Was it an emotion? It had to be one, but it was nothing she had ever felt before. It seemed to her like a puddle of pure, pristine darkness—a good kind of darkness. It seemed to absorb her fear and helplessness, transforming it into something new, something that came very close to anger; however, it was not wild and flaming, but cool and purposeful.
    Arvid climbed back down and began to open all the chests she could find. She felt that she had to get out of here, no matter how. She had to get rid of her pent-up aggressions, this gnawing anger about what had happened to her, about the gods, about those damned portals and everything. The answers to all the questions that kept her awake at night were somewhere out there.
    She found clothes, towels, pants, socks, even a pair of gloves, but no shoes, not even sandals. Arvid’s frustration grew, and with it the odd feeling of darkness. There were blankets and furs, but no coats or capes, and when all she found in the last chest were several bolts of cloth and pieces of fabric, she slammed the lid with an angry cry and clenched her hands into fists so violently, her fingernails painfully cut into her skin. Arvid had to use all her mental strength not to give the chest a violent kick. No, the last thing she needed right now was a broken toe.
    At that thought, she suddenly stopped. Confusion abruptly mingled with her anger. Almost at the same time she heard the loud, screeching noise of the front door. She walked over to the entrance and saw Thoke, who was about to take off his cloak.
    “Why is my finger not broken?” she asked without greeting.
    Thoke looked at her in astonishment. “What? Why would it be?”
    Arvid rubbed her little